


life is wearing thin by general consensus

by thatsparrow



Category: BoJack Horseman
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Monologue, Post-Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 03:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17675570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsparrow/pseuds/thatsparrow
Summary: "Look, I know how this is supposed to go, but I'm not saying it, okay? Maybe I would if I was an extra in a TNT drama, or some nobody standing up at the local church hall before his 8 a.m. shift at the DMV or whatever, but I'm not. That's the sort of guy who has to say his name out loud because how else would anyone know it? I'm not that guy, so, I'm going to skip the introductions."





	life is wearing thin by general consensus

**Author's Note:**

> "free churro" was my favorite episode of s5 and I really wanted to try writing a similar style monologue
> 
> set nebulously after the end of s5 while bojack is still in rehab
> 
> title from "cemetery row" by the minus 5

"Look, I know how this is supposed to go, but I'm not saying it, okay? Maybe I would if I was an extra in a TNT drama, or some nobody standing up at the local church hall before his 8 a.m. shift at the DMV or whatever, but I'm not. That's the sort of guy who has to say his name out loud because how else would anyone know it? I'm not that guy, so, I'm going to skip the introductions.

"You know, I did go to a meeting like that once — folding chairs in an auditorium, aluminum table with the big coffee urns, and, like, _one_ Krispy Kreme box. Who only brings one box of donuts to an AA meeting? Like anyone wants to deal with a bunch of whiny alcoholics hopped up on caffeine and fighting for the last one with glaze, because you know all the shit with sprinkles goes first. I think they might've been stale, too, which is just adding injury to the insult of it all. Then again, I don't really remember. I'd had a good amount of cocaine that day, so.

"Oh, what? Like you've never done a couple lines and then gone to a meeting? Bullshit. Especially you, with the nails tap-tap-tapping against your coffee cup. Jesus, it's like a goddamn woodpecker has flown into the room—no offense to you, sir, who is, in fact, an actual woodpecker. No, you're shaking your head. You're a blue jay, or something? No? Oh, and now you're glaring at me like I'm some kind of asshole who thinks all birds look the same. I know all birds don't look the same. Am I crazy, though, or does he not look like a woodpecker? Is that just me? Whatever.

"Anyway, where was I…? Right. Cocaine.

"So that was the last time I went to an AA meeting. Not for me, though, but for this friend of mine who was due for her nine-month chip. I think we might have done the cocaine to celebrate, but it also might've been because we'd looked at the clock right when it was 11:11, or because we'd flipped a coin where heads was cocaine and tails was...also cocaine. It's not like we needed much of an excuse. I don't remember much about the meeting itself, though—probably because it was boring as shit—so I don't really know what's said at something like this. Is it supposed to be self-pitying? I can do self-pitying.

"My name’s BoJack— _don't_ you say it—and back in the '90s I was in a very famous TV show, and it's all been downhill from there. Maybe that sounds hyperbolic coming from a guy who's done some award-winning shit since then, but it's true. Sure, career-wise, I guess I'm doing okay—I do have a new show out, it's called _Philbert_ , already getting Emmy buzz—but ever since _Horsin' Around_ , I haven't been...happy, I guess. Maybe not even when I was on the show, either. I don't know. And I'll get a run of good luck, and I'll work on these projects that I _think_ should make me happy, but they don't. Nothing does. Sometimes, I don't think anything ever will. And, well, you're all addicts. You know how the story goes from there.

"So that's why I'm here. That's me. Case closed.

"Also, do you think we could get more comfortable chairs? No offense, but I feel like I shelled out way too much money to have my ass going numb ten minutes into a meeting. I mean, this is, what — quarter-inch padding? At best? You guys spring for Apple desktops at reception but won't go for some nicer chairs? That's the kind of shit that'll kill your Yelp rating. Do rehab facilities even have Yelp pages? They must, right? I'll look it up later. Actually, you know what, I don't care that much about this.

"Seriously, sir, are you sure you don't have some woodpecker DNA or something?

"Funny story, I used to have a pills guy who was a woodpecker. This was a couple months ago, or maybe a year or something, I don't know—the timeline's a bit of a blur because of the aforementioned pills, but anyway. So this woodpecker. Kind of an asshole and, like, _way_ nosier than I usually want in a drug dealer. That's not some kind of a jab about the giant beak—although 'jab' _was_ intentional, because, you know, woodpecker—but no, he would show up and want to talk about my life. Like we were honest-to-god friends instead of him being my drug dealer. Used to make himself comfortable on my couch and put his feet up on my coffee table and go on and _on_ about the troubles he was having with his girlfriend or how he thought he might be lactose intolerant. And this was all before giving me my pills, so I had to listen! I tell you, that ten minutes of nodding and going 'mhm' was some of the toughest acting I ever did. Should've won an Oscar for that instead of _Secretariat_. Not that I won an Oscar for _Secretariat_ —or was even nominated—but that's a different story. Or, a different part of the same story, I guess. And that's kind of just what life is, isn't it? Lots of different chapters in the same story, and here's another one that I'm in now. The rehab arc. So far, I'm not loving it—and not just because these chairs are putting my ass to sleep.

"It was a friend of mine who talked me into coming here. Diane. Even after all the awful, unforgivable shit I've pulled over the years—and, trust me, that's a long goddamn list—she still thinks that I can become somebody better. Maybe that was just a lie to get me here, but I want to believe that she was right. I _have_ to believe that she was right, because otherwise, what's the fucking point of any of this? I hate myself and I hate the things that I do and I _want_ to stop but...I don't know. I can't, or I won't, and so instead, I just keep doing awful shit and hating myself even more.

"And, yeah, a lot of that awful shit happened while I was drunk, or high, or both, but not all of it. Not Penny. So what if I sober up and I'm still this horrible, useless asshole who just keeps doing awful shit? What then? Fuck, I don't know. Maybe I should just kill myself now and save us all some time.

" _Kidding_ —kind of. I mean, I have thought about it, but the crème brûlée here is surprisingly good, so I probably won't go all Sylvia Plath just yet. Not that the whole head-in-the-oven method is actually how I'd choose to off myself. No, I'd go with a shitload of pills and booze, am I right? Show of hands, who'd use pills and booze if they were going to commit suicide. Anyone? Come on, nobody? Oh, bullshit. You all are just too cowardly to own up to it.

"You know my mom never let me have crème brûlée when I was a kid? I tried ordering it once at a restaurant and she told me that if I got any fatter, I'd win her a blue ribbon at the county fair. We lived in San Francisco, though, so I have no fucking idea what county fair she was talking about. Alameda, maybe? Doesn't matter. Point is, by the time that little ramekin got to the table, I was feeling like such a fat loser that I never even touched it. Which is, just—fuck you, Mom. I was only nine and you couldn't even let me have that one good thing? No, of course not. Christ, you deserved worse than the dementia.  

"Oh, what? Like that's such an awful thing to say? Look, my mom was a huge bitch. In fact, 'huge bitch' doesn't even really cover it: she was a colossal bitch. She was, like, the _Argentinosaurus_ of bitches. Her bitchiness could be seen from space, by someone on Neptune, who also had cataracts. That's the level of bitch we're talking about here.

"Also she's dead now, so who really cares how often I call her a bitch? She sure doesn't.

"Then again, she never accidentally strangled someone because she was too hopped up on oxy to tell the difference between fiction and reality. She did secretly drug my half-sister for weeks, though, subjecting her to a future of trauma and trust issues that weekly therapy sessions are still working to undo, so. Also not great.

"I don't know — which one do you all think is worse. Probably the strangling, right? Yeah. I think so too.

"You all must have seen the video, and the interview we did after where Gina and I laughed and smiled and played it off as a _Philbert_ take that was just a little too convincing, but that's bullshit. The truth is that I nearly killed her because I was too high to understand what I was doing. Yeah, you should wince at that. I nearly _killed_ a woman, and instead of ending up in jail or facing any kind of serious consequences, I got an interview and a write-up in the entertainment section of the _LA Gazette_ commending the accuracy of my performance. How fucked is that? And I tried to say something—I _wanted_ to say something—but she didn't. She told me that she didn't want to be the girl who got assaulted by BoJack Horseman, especially when she was just starting to make a name for herself. And I get it, but—it's still fucked. She deserves better, and I deserve so much fucking worse.

"A few years ago, I asked the question: _how do you make something right when you've made it so wrong you can never go back_? I didn't have an answer then, and I still don't really have one now, but I think it has to do with holding yourself accountable. I can't un-strangle Gina, or un-fuck Emily—not that any of you know who Emily is—or undo any of the other thousand shitty things I've done, but I don't want to be sitting in this same place a year from now with some new sin to agonize over. I want to be better. _I want to be better_. I don't want people trading stories after I've died about all the ways I fucked them over. I don't want to leave the kind of shitty, poisonous legacy that my parents did. I want to be better, and I don't know if sobering up will get me there, but I have to try something. If I keep going the way I've been, then one of these days, I really will end up taking a nosedive off the PCH. I don't want to be that guy; I don't want to look at myself and think the world would be improved without me in it.

"I want to be better, and—even though I think rehab is stupid, and therapy is even more stupid—I'm hoping that being here will help me. Because I need help. I don't know how to do this on my own.

"My name's BoJack and...I'm an addict."


End file.
